


A Little Death

by burymeinziam



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Death, Dubious Consent, Gangbang, M/M, Multi, Pornstars, Smut, Zayn-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burymeinziam/pseuds/burymeinziam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You give them a taste of death,” Liam says, licking his lips as his eyes rake over Zayn’s body. “But you also give them the breath of life… And what a life they’ll have after having you, Messiah.”</p><p>(i blame this on american horror story)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Death

**i.**

He doesn’t know the man’s name.

A part of him vaguely remembers that it’s something common and mundane and ordinary, but the bigger part, the part that wins out, can’t really muster up the energy to care less. It wouldn’t matter once it was all over.

It’s nothing.

He’s nothing.

It’s a job.

He repeats that to himself as the man – Harry, that’s it – slams into him repeatedly. Harry is grunting and sweating and it’s probably not all that pretty, but Zayn is on his knees and can’t really see anything other than the camera focused on both of their bodies so what does he know anyways? They’re saying nice things about Harry’s stamina – they’ve been doing this for hours – and Zayn’s grip on the sheets is wearing out and his knees are chaffing from rubbing up against the sheets covering the mattress, but he’s holding on. He’s holding out.

It won’t be long.

Zayn is just beginning to tune out Harry’s rhythmic thrusting when he catches the director’s eye. Liam is mouthing something and its good news.

_Finish him._

Zayn reaches a hand behind him to still Harry’s hips, makes him pull out and sit on his heels on the bed. He pushes Harry to lie down – mostly for the angle but also because he won’t choke that way – and settles between Harry’s thighs. A second later there’s a cock in Zayn’s mouth, not the biggest he’s ever had but still enough to make his jaw ache.

There are a few quick bobs of his head, Zayn imagining he’s licking a lollipop instead of a dick that’s probably been shoved down too many throats to count. He knows they’re zooming in on him now. This is Zayn’s moment, he’s the star, and Harry is just the dark sky. Background noise.

Zayn opens his eyes and tugs at Harry’s hand so he’ll look at him, really look at him, for the first time since they started filming. Harry glances at him, distracted, and only for a moment but that’s all it really takes.

He’s a goner.

Zayn doesn’t quite swallow but he keeps his lips parted to give that impression, letting it all spray on his face. He’s never quite gotten the hang of it, but that’s what they pay him for. The money shot.

Zayn passes by Liam later on when he’s dressed and all too eager to leave. Liam pats him on the small of his back, purposely aiming a little too low to graze Liam’s ass instead.

“Great shoot today.” Liam winks and it’s dirty, sends shivers up and down Zayn’s spine. “Messiah.”

Zayn tries to ignore the “good boy” implied in Liam’s words, the filthy praise glimmering in his eyes.

**ii.**

He wasn’t always called Messiah.

It would be silly to think that it had always been that way but these days it made sense. There’s another name etched onto his birth certificate, but that name came with a mother and a father. There was a childhood and some friends and dreams that had somehow gotten lost along the way. It’s not as though he’s forgotten so much as Zayn chooses not to remember. He’d say he was ashamed if he were to ever let himself admit it, much less say it out loud. It’s just that his name and the life that had come along with it seems so far away and Zayn isn’t sure he could go back if he tried.

He hasn’t tried.

Not yet.

Perhaps when the time came, when people stopped buying what he was selling, but that won’t be for quite a while, Zayn is sure. He’s too precious; too marketable. Zayn has too much left to offer and too many people left to please. Sometimes he wonders if it’s possible to go anywhere else with a past like his.

A past like this full of filth and money and sex.

Zayn wonders but he doesn’t wander. He can’t think of any other industry that has any use for what he can do.

**iii.**

Zayn came to the city to make enough money for med school.

He wanted to be a doctor.

He could have been a doctor.

Or Zayn could have been a journalist or an artist or a fucking concert pianist if he tried.

He could have been anything, but life threw him a curve ball and sports were never his strong suit.

Zayn tried out for the job only because it was there. Later on he’d find out that it paid well too, but even that wasn’t on his mind yet. There wasn’t much else to think about when the application form had a questionnaire that listed, at the very top, something along the lines of:

“Do you have a gag reflex?”

He felt his eyes widen. They could have bulged out of their sockets and rolled out onto the floor, out the door, and out into the street like that meatball from the song his mother used to sing to him when he was a kid

_(On top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese. I lost my poor meatball when somebody sneezed...)_

Zayn thinks he should have followed their lead when he had the chance but he did the sensible thing instead. Zayn thought about it carefully and clicked his pen open to write out

_No._

He waited and a few more questions, a few photos, a few days later, he received a call. There was no feedback from anywhere else, so he jotted down the directions onto a post-it note and went to work.

**iv.**

Zayn should probably be able to say he can recall the first one clear as day, but if he did he would be lying.

The first one, the first time, the first man – it had happened so fast. Zayn was signing things and there were cameras and he was hot and cold all at the same time but that was probably just because he was naked and then…

He doesn’t remember at first. Not really. The ones that came after didn’t leave much of an impression either. Like any other job that’s only there to pay the bills, it’s all monotony. There’s also discomfort and pain but, after a while, those too become monotonous as well. If anyone had thought Zayn was special back then, he’d be flattered, but he couldn’t really return the favor.

The thing was though, Zayn wasn’t special. He was just a boy with a pretty enough face and, even then, he wasn’t particularly prettier than any of the girls who were earning less than him. He didn’t know a thing about making love, much less about fucking. There was nothing to make him stand out from an array of faces people don’t really look at because they’re far too busy noticing other things.

Zayn was, daresay, ordinary.

It’s a fighting word if anyone knew what it really meant. Zayn wasn’t anything, really; not in the beginning.

Not until that day.

**v.**

The day Zayn met Liam was the day it all really began.

Some would say he was “discovered” as if that were something that really happened anymore. Others would say Zayn finally caught his break. If people were to make a biopic about Zayn’s life they would have marked Liam taking a liking to him as the moment his lucky stars began to shine.

Zayn can see the appeal in thinking that way, but he’d never bring himself to actually do it. Not when he knows it’s less of Liam taking a liking to him so much as it was Liam taking a liking to his ass. But even then, Zayn was still just a filler to the collection. Another trophy to fill up an empty space.

Zayn was a body amongst bodies and maybe he would have stayed that way if Liam had never matched him up with Niall.

**vi.**

Zayn thought Niall sort of resembled a cherub when he walked into the room. He found it nearly impossible to ignore the paleness to his skin, the rosy hue to his cheeks. But Niall’s angelic features were a stark contrast to the way he pounded into Zayn as if he were a piece of veal on a cooking show aired between two and three in the afternoon on the Food Network. It was vile and exaggerated and maybe that’s why the viewers at home would jack off to it at four o’clock in the morning when they were sad and lonely with nothing but their right hand and a box of Kleenex to keep them company.

But Zayn was never one to struggle to fake pleasure. He never felt like dynamite had been set off inside of him, burning and crackling and ripping him to escape only to force its way back in all over again. Zayn wanted to stop, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t call the shots. Zayn groaned with more pain than he let on, counted up and up until he ran out of numbers. Then he met Niall’s eyes the first moment he got the chance, if only to say “stop.”

The thing is, Zayn didn’t need to say a word. One second Niall was thrusting without even pausing to breathe and the next he’s groaning and shuddering and gasping, ruining the shot.

Liam yelled for the cameras to quit rolling and he yelled again at an even redder faced Niall who was trapped in the most embarrassing moment of his life. He was known for his ability to keep going and going and going. That was why he kept getting hired, baby cherub face and all. It was an irreversible blunder on his resume and no matter how much he tried to explain that he’d been doing good until Zayn had stared at him, it had all gone downhill from there. Liam scheduled another take and made a mental note to ditch Niall in the future, but he seemed otherwise preoccupied.

Zayn saw Liam turn and smile at him, eyes like dollar signs and teeth glittering like one of those cheap gold bracelets you can find in one of those sketchy pawn shops on the bad side of town and felt like he’d done something right for once.

**vii.**

He’d used his real name until then, never really thinking twice about it. But when Liam noticed that he had this uncanny ability of making men come just by looking them in the eye, he decided that Zayn needed a new one. Something that would make him a household name – at least for those who frequented certain websites or the back shelves of shady video stores.

Zayn bit his lip upon being put on the spot. He had no idea what Liam wanted from him or for him. They ran through a list of ideas, Zayn’s own contributions getting scrapped out almost instantly until Liam’s eyes lit up indicating that he’d made up his mind.

“Messiah.”

Zayn blinked at the suggestion, his cheeks growing uncomfortably hot.

“I’m no savior.”

“But you are.”

Zayn wanted to shake his head, but Liam continued on.

“Are you familiar with the term ‘la petite mort’?”

Now, Zayn does shake his head. “No…”

He would have sworn Liam’s gaze turned a little hazy, the way men’s eyes did when experiencing or remembering extreme pleasure.

“It’s French,” Liam tells him. “It means ‘little death’.”

Zayn furrows his brows and Liam sighs.

“It’s a metaphor for the sexual climax,” Liam explains, then smirks. “Something you seem to be particularly skilled at giving.”

Zayn didn’t know how to react to that and when Liam put a hand on his knee, he wasn’t sure how to react to that either.

“You give them a taste of death,” Liam says, licking his lips as his eyes rake over Zayn’s body. “But you also give them the breath of life.”

It’s almost poetic the way Liam says it; makes Zayn feel important even though he knows it’s all a ploy; a scheme. A strategic attempt to keep Zayn around.

Zayn watches Liam laugh, squeezing and stroking the skin of his kneecap.

“And what a life they’ll have after having you, Messiah.”

Zayn nods, responding to his new name as if it were the only one he’d ever known. He would have cried too, but it’s not as if he really had a choice in the matter.

**viii.**

It’s a gangbang.

There’s someone pounding into him from behind and two cocks in front of him slapping at either one of his cheeks smearing precome across his skin. He’s resting a hand on a thigh as he attempts to lick at them all at once since he can’t fit both into his mouth. It’s a battle to remember their names this time, to associate them with something human so he doesn’t feel so much like a ragdoll. Louis, Liam, Harry, Niall, it could be anyone and it really wouldn’t matter. Even if they were people rather than bodies, Zayn would still be nothing more than a toy.

It was their third take. For the first one Louis had forgotten to use lube before forcing himself inside and Zayn couldn’t help the cry that bordered a little too much on painful. The second take got scrapped because he looked into one of the guys’ eyes too early so he came halfway through and, according to Liam, that really wouldn’t do.

He grunts softly when Louis spanks him before digging his nails into the globes of his ass. He probably couldn’t help himself. Louis was new and Zayn really couldn’t blame him. He tries not to think about the harsh sting of the slap, the angry red mark that probably got left behind and, instead, focuses on the two cocks in front of his face. Zayn places all his weight on his knees so can give them a hand each. He sucks on the tip of one while the other continues to prod at his cheek, begging for attention.

Zayn glances toward Liam from the corner of his eye, slightly pleading, and Liam nods. When the cock in his mouth – maybe his name is Mathew – yanks at his hair to tilt his head up, Messiah uses this time to make eye contact and this guy really doesn’t even have a chance. He falls to his back on the bed, groaning and convulsing like a snake struggling to shed its skin. Skeptics would watch and say he was faking it, none of that could be genuine, but most would know better. This was normal when you were watching Messiah.

He wraps his lips around the other guy’s cock, the one who’d been prodding at his cheek, finally giving it the attention it had been craving. Zayn lets it slide to the back of his throat, moving his hips on his own. He preferred it when men fucked his mouth, it was less work for him. Behind him, Louis’ pace is almost akin to that of an Olympian and, for a moment, it’s all Zayn can do to close his eyes and keep everything else wide open. He’s done it many times before, but ignoring them never worked. It never stopped him from trying though.

Zayn crouches there for a moment, bent over on his hands and knees, all the wind knocked out of him. He takes some of that wind back, and then some, and clutches at the thighs of the dick in his mouth – and maybe this was Harry, but Zayn can’t be too sure – and sucks hard, giving him no sort of reprieve before fixing their eyes together. Harry comes on his face, catching his cheeks, his lips, his eyelashes, and Messiah turns to the camera to give the people a good, sweet view.

He pushes back against Louis, clenching his muscles once before pulling away and turning over. Mathew has recovered beautifully, flitting kisses all over Messiah’s torso as Louis shoves his cock back inside. He picks up where he left off, almost violent with the way he’s thrusting in and out of Zayn’s body while Harry watches off from the side, struggling to catch his breath.

He waits for Louis to pump into him a few more times before setting his eyes on him. He’s wearing a condom but he pulls out anyways, a big, hot shot porn star reduced to whimpers resembling that of a twelve-year-old boy just barely discovering himself beneath the dark confines of the superhero comforter covering his twin sized bed.

Messiah spread eagles on the bed as the three bodies smother him. Liam tells the crew to keep filming, but Zayn’s own difficult climax is taken out of the final cut.

**ix.**

 Zayn sits in front of his computer, pants around his ankles, cock in his hand. He clicks around aimlessly, his hand growing numb from being so motionless. He settles on a video, watches for a few seconds, tries to stay at least until they start fucking but exits the page a few moments later. He repeats the process a few more times before shutting down.

Stripping off his shirt and stepping out of his pants, Zayn flops onto the bed without all the grace he’s so unconsciously learned to perfect. His hand is still wrapped around his cock and he hasn’t jerked off in so it’s hard to remember what he even used to get off to. Zayn thinks of all the scenes he’s seen, all the movies about how magnificent it could really be. He strokes and squeezes, but there’s no sensation.

Zayn can feel it, but he doesn’t feel.

Unfolding his fingers, one by one, Zayn sits up. He thinks of turning on the computer again, maybe writing an email to his family, but he knows that he can’t. He’d sworn he wouldn’t contact them again until he’s made something of himself. And he has, but Zayn knows it’s not what they would have had in mind. With the way things are going, Zayn sometimes finds himself wondering if they’ll ever hear from him again.

Looking down at his limp cock, Zayn can’t help but to feel a little angry. He’s given so much of himself away and gotten nothing in return.

Some savior.

**x.**

He’s standing in Liam’s apartment.

He’s never been there before. Liam had just given him an address and told him to show up. The doorman had let him in then directed him the way up to the number Zayn had written down on a torn sheet of paper. The apartment is sleek and classy and there’s a fur rug on the floor. It’s Liam, so Zayn knows that it’s real. Zayn knows its Liam from the photographs in the frames, Liam with so many different women, though there are three that appear more often than most, but Zayn knows that he doesn’t have a wife. Ex-wives, no doubt, but nothing current.

Zayn tentatively takes a seat on a leather couch, asking himself why Liam had asked him to the apartment even though Zayn is sure he already knows the answer. He’s been expecting it. Liam has a reputation; it was how he was able to give Messiah his own.

Zayn doesn’t have to wait long. Liam emerges from one of the rooms toward the back of the apartment. He sits next to Zayn, legs touching, offers him wine, and makes small talk. Then Liam turns to him, something hungry in his faze like he’s in the mood for raw flesh.

“It’s about time, Messiah.”

Zayn doesn’t shiver or whine or bother with resisting when Liam lunges at him, horizontal in three seconds flat; naked in what feels like ten.

Liam attacks his neck, hands pillaging whatever they can grasp of him, grinding at his thigh and panting heavily against Zayn’s skin. Liam must have wanted him for a while, but it’s not much of a surprise. Zayn is pliant and he sighs when he feels the time is right. He pretends like he’s on camera, that the other people will be watching this – watching him – so he’d better make it pretty.

Zayn can’t tell if it’s sad, thinking like that, but it probably doesn’t matter.

Nothing ever really does.

He’s lost in himself, finally drifting away, when Liam bites down on his ear the same time he pushes his cock inside. No prep, no lube, nothing, just the dry, hot drag and searing pain. Liam grins along the curve of Zayn’s ear, he can feel the teeth grazing, lips curving, breath heating as Liam worms his way inside.

“You’ve always been such a good boy.”

Zayn listens to Liam, actually say it out loud. It’s no secret and Zayn has always known, but he inhales the words and they taste like bile; like venom and he’s had enough. He snarls something quiet, French braiding his fingers into Liam’s hair and tugging harshly. His limbs aren’t pinned down, so it’s easy to flip over, both of them falling from the couch and onto the floor, their bodies covering that pretty fur rug that Zayn knows is real.

He impales himself on Liam’s cock and, though it stings, it isn’t unbearable. The burn is worth it. Liam had landed on his back, something to make his bones feel somewhat sore, and he seems confused, probably from hitting his head, but he doesn’t seem opposed to it either.

Zayn rocks roughly on top of Liam and there’s nothing short of hate written all over his face, but Liam doesn’t seem to see it, his expression even going somewhat fond; something dreamy, his eyes lidding halfway.

Zayn slaps them open.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t stop moving his hops as Liam shudders beneath him, screaming out for a God he’s never cared for, and Zayn has never seen anything so crass in his life. No doubt Liam thought it was premature, but when he opens his mouth to say so he looks straight into Zayn’s eyes and sees Messiah.

He experiences another before the first is even over.

Zayn stares down at the man below him, recoiling from his noises. Liam has ruined him. Zayn sees nothing but ugly in the world, in himself, in others; in sweat and in smell and in humanity. Zayn longs to peel his skin off and rid himself of the body he’s been given and the memories of everyone who has ever touched it.

But he can’t.

It’s something Zayn will just have to live with; one of those little deaths that somehow breathe life into a wasted body.

Zayn sees Liam gasping for breath and there’s a quiver of uncertainty in his mouth.  He senses something is amiss and he wants Messiah no longer and Zayn wants to laugh.

He narrows his eyes as he forces Liam to meet them and then Liam is thrashing like a hanged man, shutting his eyes tight as exhaustion knocks the breath out of him. Liam has seen so much white these past few minutes that it feels as though he’s been blinded. He’s probably come close.

Zayn pries at Liam’s eyelids with his fingertips so he can’t shut them again, pinching harshly at the thin skin in his loathing. There’s terror in Liam’s eyes now, even as he climaxes again and again and again. Over and over, never ending wave after wave. He struggles until the sixth or seventh of his little deaths before acquiescing, lying there and taking it.

Zayn delivers another and another and another so swiftly that Liam’s breaths can’t keep up with him and after a while, the air simply leaves his lungs and his heart just stops. His lungs collapse. His gears stop turning.

Zayn blinks and it dawns on him exactly what he’s done. They’ll find traces of him everywhere: fingerprints, strands of hair, Liam’s messages sent to his phone number. But they can’t tie him to the crime. Only Liam had ever known what he could do and he’d never shared it with anyone.

The selfish bastard.

Zayn stands and dresses. He takes Liam’s jacket too, but only because it’s leather and he has no real use for it anymore. Maybe they won’t even find traces at all.

On his way out, Zayn looks back at Liam’s body lying limp and lifeless on top of the fur rug and smiles, decides to keep the name Messiah.

It’s innocent, just like him.

 


End file.
